Chapter 15
A Fountain and Some Gossip
A half-hour later
Although it had only taken Armenia another twenty minutes to finish dressing, she rang for coffee and insisted they enjoy the tiny servings prior to setting out in the direction of Piazza Navona.
Her walking gown was a bell-skirted affair featuring a rather high neckline, long sleeves that ballooned in the middle but were tight at the deep cuffs, and a matching mantle.
A small hat, a dark green felt with a single peacock feather, didn’t hide the best of the coiffure Marcella, her lady’s maid, had spent nearly an hour creating that morning.
Patrick had offered an arm upon their exit from Villa D’Avalos and saw to the door at the courtyard entrance, which gave her an opportunity to study his clothes.
She thought his choice of a yellow waistcoat interesting—had he expected her to wear yellow?
—but it was perfect with his navy coat. She thought his buff pantaloons might have been Nankeen, but the way they hugged his muscular calves had her realizing they were made from some kind of knit fabric.
Upon closer inspection of his top coat, she expected to see water stains but found no evidence the coat had suffered from its earlier soaking. What little of his waistcoat that showed hinted at silk embroidered with tiny birds.
Once they were on the street, she asked, “How is it you knew your top coat would not be damaged from its bath this morning?”
He chuckled softly. “You might say it is my business to know. I deal in silks and woolens,” he reminded her.
Giving him a look of disbelief, she said, “When you told me you wanted to speak with my nephew about his sheep, I did not realize you were asking for his wool.”
He chuckled. “I’ll take as much as I can find here in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies,” he said. “I have cargo hold space secured on ships that sail to England and on steamers that cross the Atlantic,” he explained. “I have customers all over America demanding the very best wool and silks.”
“Has it completely dried? Your coat, I mean?” she asked. They emerged from the tight confines of Via di Tor Millina and into the plaza, the bright sun and few clouds already promising a warm day.
“Indeed. I believe it was before we had even left the house,” he replied. “I tend to choose superfine for my top coats as it can survive a good soaking in the rain.”
She inhaled softly. “How is it I didn’t know this?”
He reached over with his free hand and pinched a section of her mantle. “Your wrap is made of it,” he said. “The die matches perfectly with your gown. Cotton twill, is it not?”
Blinking, she shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea.”
He sounded a scoff. “You don’t choose the fabrics for your clothes?” he asked in surprise.
“Well, the colors, yes, but I leave the fabric choice to my modiste.”
“Then you are very trusting,” he commented.
“Madame Clos du Bois has made my gowns for…” Here she paused, not sure she wanted to admit how long she had employed the old woman who, despite her name, was no more French than she was. “A very long time,” she finished.
He chuckled. “She has done well with your gown. The small bows along the striping are perfectly spaced and not overdone at all.”
“Oh?” she glanced down at the tiny decorations as if seeing them for the first time.
“Some modistes tend to over-decorate a gown, which means they can charge more for it,” he commented.
“Lots of frills and furbelows are fine for a young lady fresh from the schoolroom, but for true ladies, restraint should be practiced.” He paused before adding.
“The gown you wore last night was absolute perfection. You wore it very well, and the color was...”
Red.
Whore. His housekeeper’s comment once again had him sobering.
“Flattering?” she guessed.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes. I was trying to think of the name for the red. Some French word for poppy, I believe.”
Armenia arched a brow but decided not to challenge him. “Coquelicot,” she murmured.
“That’s it,” he said, raising a gloved finger.
“I’ll be sure to let Madame Clos du Bois know,” she said. Apparently the man knew fashion as well as fabrics.
As for the reason for their walk, she was reminded of it when they approached the fountain located in the middle of the piazza.
“When you said you wished to see four fountains, it’s rather unfair we came here first,” she remarked.
Piazza Navona featured three fountains, evenly spaced out along the long, narrow plaza.
“I’ve only visited the Fountain of the Four Rivers,” he replied, using the English name for the Fontana del Quattro Fiumi. “So the other two will be new to me.” He pointed in the direction of his office and lodgings. “I live in a building just there,” he added.
She followed his line of sight and frowned. “You rent space?” she asked, wondering if she might know his landlord.
“I actually bought part of the building,” he replied, stopping before the section of the fountain dedicated to the Nile River.
The man depicted in the statuary bore a remarkable resemblance to paintings of Moses.
“The ground floor has my office as well as one for my secretary, and I live in the upper floors.”
Armenia gave a cursory glance in the direction of the ornate fountain, the carvings by Bernini so familiar to her, she could recite all four rivers—the Ganges, the Danube, Rio de la Plata, and the Nile—even though she hadn’t actually seen any of them in person.
In the center was a Roman obelisk topped with a bronze bird.
“Do you employ servants?” she asked, moving to stand before the side of the fountain dedicated to the Danube. The statue of the muscular man portraying the river was turned toward the obelisk, apparently because Faith was said to be descending on the world from the obelisk.
“I must,” he affirmed. “I have a young man who sees to my clothing, and his mother, who is my cook and housekeeper.”
“Convenient,” she commented, moving to the side of the fountain depicting the Rio de la Plata, its statue appearing awestruck by Faith since it was unknown in its part of the world.
“Indeed. Although I do wonder as to how many people know everything there is to know about me around here.” He waved to indicate the surrounding area.
She paused before completing the circle around the fountain. “What do you mean?”
“I rather imagine Signora Ricci enjoys exchanging gossip with the other housekeepers in this area. Perhaps even with yours.”
Inhaling softly at hearing the familiar name, Armenia removed a glove and reached out to dip her hand in the water.
“No doubt,” she said, pretending nonchalance.
Perhaps the Signora Ricci he employed wasn’t the same Sophia Ricci who had at one time been a housemaid in Villa D’Avalos back when her brother, Enrico, was still alive and master of the house.
Been employed and then dismissed when it was discovered she was with child.
How long ago had that been? Twenty years, at least. Mayhap twenty-five years. As for who had fathered the child, Armenia didn’t know, nor had she ever asked. She had learned long ago that when dealing with her older brother, she couldn’t believe half of what he told her.
Despite her efforts to keep her private life unknown to the servants of Villa D’Avalos, Armenia knew they shared gossip when she entertained a member of the opposite sex, even if it was only for a coffee or a meal.
As to how far that gossip extended, she had no idea.
Gossip was a commodity in Rome, though, as important as news of business or politics.
“Do you know her?” Patrick asked.
The query pulled Armenia from her brief reverie. She shook the the water from her hand, as if she found it offensive. “If she is the same woman, Signora Ricci has worked as a servant for a number of households in this area,” she remarked.
“‘A number of households’ implies she’s either not a very good employee or she’s—”
“A gossip,” Armenia stated. “Be mindful of what you say in her presence, and you should be fine.” She knew from his reaction she had said too much.
“Did she spread rumors about you?” he asked, his concern evident in how his brows furrowed.
Armenia lifted a shoulder. “Probably, but I learned long ago not to pay any mind to gossip.”
“Liar,” he murmured quietly.
About to deny his claim, she instead said, “Given Signora Ricci’s age.
..” She paused and did a quick addition in her head.
“You will likely find her a loyal employee. She cannot afford to be relieved of yet another position.” Armenia placed her arm back on his, expecting they would resume their walk.
“How long have you known her?” he asked.
She lifted a shoulder and considered the query a moment. “Since long before I gained possession of Villa D’Avalos.”
“Gained possession?” he repeated.
She saw his look of humor and relaxed. “My brother gave it to the Marquess Montblanc as a dowry when he married off my niece, Nicoletta, to the marquess. Not even ten years ago,” she explained, her body quaking at the reminder of Enrico’s betrayal.
Villa D’Avalos had been her childhood home. Her refuge in Rome. For Enrico D’Avalos to have given it away as a dowry was unforgivable. He had gone to his grave knowing how angry it made Armenia. It also left the immediate family with property only in Catania.
“How did you get it back?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Montblanc gave it to me. In his last will and testament,” she replied.
Noting how Patrick stiffened at hearing the news, Armenia wondered about two things at once. Did Patrick assume she and Montblanc had been lovers? And was he jealous?
The oddest flutter in her chest had her inhaling softly.